


Promises Left Stillborn

by ignemferam



Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Community: apocalypse_kree, Euthanasia, Gen, hinted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-18
Updated: 2012-10-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 13:18:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignemferam/pseuds/ignemferam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's another promise made he can't keep, and it kills him. Rather literally. (set after events of Atlantis episode 5.19 <i>Vegas</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promises Left Stillborn

**Author's Note:**

> **Spoilers:** SGA 5.19 _Vegas_ , last 2 seasons of SG-1 and _The Ark of Truth_
> 
> **Disclaimer:** They're not mine, no matter how much I want them to be.
> 
> **Prompt:** [19\. Any. The sunshine and blue skies made it seem worse, somehow.](http://apocalypse-kree.livejournal.com/29411.html?style=mine&thread=198115#t198115)
> 
> **Author's Notes:**  
>  \- Unbeta'd, all errors are my own.  
> \- Written for [apocalypse-kree](http://apocalypse-kree.livejournal.com/).  
> \- This is written as a Flyboys friendship fic in mind. But if you want to wear a pair of slash-goggles while reading, please feel free!

The sky stays blue and the sun continues to shine punishingly hot at three in the afternoon.

John wonders if he'll be accustomed to life on a small Kansas farm. Three weeks ago he was living in solitary up in the Quinlan Mountains, Arizona. And now he's working as a farm hand.

Life can be strange and it's been getting stranger still after Vegas.

. . . . . .

_If anyone asked, John would say his luck had always been rather rotten._

_He wasn't superstitious, much, by any stretch. It was as simple as to recognize good things in his life were few and far between. That fact didn't make him bitter - okay, maybe a little bitter - but many others were living lives a lot worse, he couldn't in good conscience wallow in the lack of good fortune. Not when the Air Force actually medivacked him out of the desert while he was certain bleeding out would be his cause of death._

_Technically, he saved the entire planet from being an all-you-can-eat buffet of the Wraith and got shot in the process, although he wasn't the one actually blowing up the Wraith's trailer. He didn't expect much from the military. Some better treatments would be appreciated, instead of getting the hospitality of an airman waiting for his court-martial in the infirmary. So if he'd muttered a few curse words about the people in charge being ungrateful SOBs, he was entirely in his rights to._

_Even when they dumped his ass out back on the streets once he was mostly healed and a phone directory thick of NDAs were signed, he didn't complain much. Nobody - certainly not John - expected the Air Force to care enough to send help after him, so he took whatever good that came his way and counted it as blessing._

_There was bright sunshine in the cloudless Nevada blue sky and he was breathing, despite the phantom pain right below his ribcage every time he inhaled. It was a good day - he still had the sky even if he wasn't flying anymore._

_It was good to be alive._

. . . . . .

John has never imagined sipping a glass of slightly chilled water to wash down some stale bread in the shade of a barn can be described as fulfilling. Wendy has mentioned casually during breakfast dinner will be corn soup and roasted chicken. He's feeling strangely excited because it'll be a fresh free-range chicken from the small poultry shred behind the barn, and not the frozen ones from the observatory. It'll be the first time they have meat since the day he arrived. Wendy is a great cook but he's really getting sick of vegetarian meals.

The problem is theirs is but a small farm comparatively. Corns are pretty much everywhere in Kansas, which means they don't have much of desire to trade. What they do have make them quite self-sufficient, which is a blessing that John can't be more grateful of.

He glances over at the barricaded windows of the main house and wonders if Cameron will agree to trading some of their ammunition for a few steaks.

. . . . . .

_Wyoming was a state John had never been to. Or maybe he had, but nothing stuck in his memories. Even now it was merely a state he was driving through in this beaten pick-up truck. It was all he could afford. He missed his Camaro, even if it was a run-down, aged car it'd still beat what he's driving._

_Between the rattling of the engine, the vague news about the end of humanity came through the radio before dropping out of signal range. It was an exaggeration, he thought. It had only been about a week - ten days top - since he was last near any sort of civilization. Solitary of the wilderness appealed to him. Knowing what he knew now, only made him more skeptical and suspicious regarding the news. It could very well be nothing, or it could be another alien invasion. He cared, but obviously not enough to hurry to find out more._

_And it became real when he stopped on the next close-by town, looking for a temporary job before moving on. Everywhere he turned he met with the end of a gun barrel, thick end of a baseball bat or sharp point of butcher knife. People were hostile and untrusting. It was a fast spreading plague, as he was told by a seemingly sane priest. A religious figure talking about a mutated disease instead of sprouting the song of end days somehow convinced him of what was happening._

_Or at least what the general public was told by the authorities._

_There were few facts to learn but none to really protect oneself. The disease was believed to be a new strain of rabies spreading via contact affecting only humans. No known cure and no effective detection method had been devised yet. The doctors and scientists and whoever were investigating had no idea how long the incubation period was. It'd take roughly ten to fourteen hours for an infected person from showing first symptom to turning rabid attacking anything that moves, and then twenty-four to forty-eight hours to death. The government wanted anyone showing early symptoms to report to the nearest medical facilities for euthanasia._

_"People are already scared and suspicious of each other. Now they're putting people down like dogs. This's just great." He muttered to the silence in the truck after the radio announcement, as he turned south heading for Colorado, with no plan in mind._

. . . . . .

Water is precious. There may be a well on the farm but it doesn't hurt to exercise cautions concerning their resources.

Stripping off his work clothes, John stands in front of the bathroom mirror in his boxers. It has become a ritual to trace the fading bullet scar before washing off the day's dried sweat and grime. The what-ifs crowd his mind as his fingers linger over the puckered skin in reverence. More than once, he's questioned whether living is actually better. Maybe, just maybe, the Air Force didn't save him as returning a favor. Maybe they were just prolonging his sufferings by making him live. Picking up the wash cloth, he begins with scrubbing his face out of habits. He longs for Sundays now, when they allow themselves the luxury of a proper shower.

It amazes him that there is still electricity. Sure, they have their own diesel generator on the farm, but a large portion of the country's power grid continues to function. The government has seen to that. Previously normal things like flicking on a light makes him wonder what the state of civilization would be had the government not paid attention to maintain some of the basic necessities of modern lives that people have been taking for granted.

So there they are, the two Mitchells and himself, sitting under the dim kitchen light and having early dinner before the power shuts down for the day. They try not to use the generator but keep it fueled in case of emergency.

Conserving resources is essential since nobody knows when the country's infrastructure is going to give out.

. . . . . .

_It was a pleasant surprise to find the pantry almost fully stocked. John's initial plan was to strip the place of anything he could pack into his truck before heading off. Maybe he could find an abandoned cabin in the woods. There were more than his truck could carry though. Since the staff had fled the Kitt Peak National Observatory with nothing taken, he considered this one of his rare luck. He might as well take the advantages and settle down where his first good luck in years - if not decades - laid._

_The mattresses in the staff quarters seemed temptingly comfortable. That alone was a huge pro on his decision making list._

_Civilian radio and television stations all had stopped broadcasting and the previous occupied wavelengths were now employed by the government for public announcements. One of those stuck in John's head._ "Just over eighty percent of worldwide population had succumbed to the disease in five short months. Most of the surviving population are composed of small communities located in remote areas." _The observatory was certainly remote enough to be relatively safe._

_"So, still no cure yet. People are getting infected, only at a slower rate. It's just a slow march to human extinction." He thought to himself._

_The observatory was isolated from the general population, or what's left of it, but still connected. Radio signals were strong and clear on the peak, made possible by having its reception/transmission tower. John could even get cellphone coverage up here - not that anybody was going to call him. His father passed away relatively in peace due to a heart attack before the plague. When he tried to reach out but finding his brother and sister-in-law were among the early infected had left him practically alone. Minus a few old friends who he wasn't sure whether they were still alive or not._

_Date didn't seem as important now, though he kept checking daily out of habit. He did wonder if he was going to receive a call soon. It usually came within a few days of his birthday - sometimes earlier, sometimes not - but its arrival was a certainty._

_He had no power despite the government mentioned it was trying to restore electricity to populated areas. Perhaps a remote observatory wasn't on their priority list but he wasn't troubled but the lack of it. He preferred to build a fire to cook under the sky anyway. The backup generator worked and there was more fuel than he would need. Powering the radio was all he needed it for. Well, maybe for charging his cell phone too._

_Settling down at a place after drifting through small towns one after another was a strange thing. Some habits were built for the sake of a resemblance of normalcy. On one hand, he felt healthier because of the routine, the habit of eating, the free time to exercise and the obvious absence of cigarettes and alcohols. On the other hand, he felt bored out of his mind with too much free time and nothing to do. Sure he found some novels and magazines in the staff quarters, but he wasn't about to read_ Twilight _for the second time in a month. Or ever again. He was too old for fictional teenage angst, even only to read about it._

. . . . . .

Cameron is on a grocery run this afternoon. Normally, John would've gone with him but he needs to harvest all the ripe corns for proper storage in the barn before they rot out in the field. With the dwindling population and rabid infected being a less frequent occurrence now, it's become safe enough for Cameron to head out by himself. What they need is only a few items from the abandoned pharmacy. Trip is a quick one and John's task is more important. He worries only whether Cameron remembers to pick up a tube of unguent for him. His developing farmer's tan needs soothing.

A sense of unease irks John when he hops off the combine harvester heading for the house. Wendy is supposed to show him how to store the corns properly. He's about twenty yards from the house when Wendy steps out from the backdoor. A man stumbles around the corner at the far side of the house and steps into view. Even casted in shadows, the man clearly isn't Cameron. John's anxiety turns fear for Wendy at the low but audible growling in the distance. As his adrenaline pumps through him, he leaps into a run.

"Wendy, back in the house!"

John is fast on his feet but the stranger is closer. The fractions of second Wendy freezes before John's warning registers makes him push himself forward in the fastest speed he's capable of.

The man, rather obviously infected and rabid, growls again making fanatic grabs at Wendy's arm but fortunately misses by fractions of an inch. Clumsily she half falls back towards the door as John reaches within striking distance.

No guns or weapons of any kind on his person. John curses at his own unpreparedness.

Lunging himself, John aims to throw his shoulder into the man's midsection knocking him on his back. Without getting up John rolls away as fast as he can, marginally avoiding being grabbed himself. As a counterattack he strikes with his heavy work boot to the man's knee, in hope to disable him long enough to find an actual weapon.

A quick glance of his surroundings, John spots a spade a couple of feet away leaning against the side of the house. Ignoring Cameron's anal-retentiveness now has an unforeseen reward - a stray tool lying around instead of in the tool shed.

Snatching the spade, John makes a swing connecting to the side of the attacker's head. With him knocked felt on his back again, John quickly plunges the spade downward. Fast and hopefully not too painfully, the sharp edge of the spade severs the neck.

John swears he'll start carrying when out working the field.

. . . . . .

_Astrophysicists, or simply scientists in general, were probably monks._

_It was a recurring thought that came up a lot. While the pantry was well stocked, alcohol of any kind didn't seem to exist in the observatory. Not even a beer or some really cheap wine for cooking. There was no chance for John to get anywhere near buzzed for his birthday, which would be a first in years._

_What he got though, was a phone call that he was kind of expecting._

_"Sheppard! You still alive?" The familiar drawl came through loud and clear._

_The reflexive chuckle was sorely missed, if John would admit to himself. He couldn't quite remember the last time he laughed or smiled and meant it. "Not gonna die before you and I kinda miss your annual phone call."_

_To John, Mitchell was always the energetic, overzealously enthusiastic type of person. He could get a bit irritating when they first met back in Flight School. John learned to overlook it though, for he knew Mitchell was nothing but loyal and that alone outweighed such minor personality flaw. They might not be the best of friends, but it was enjoyable to reconnect through a simple phone conversation. The yearly chat they had on or around John's birthday was always good. Nobody put in the effort to track John down despite the way he exited the Air Force. Past friends were not friends anymore. Except for Mitchell._

_"Where the hell are you anyway?"_

_"Somewhere in the Arizona mountains. What? You coming to visit?"_

_"Love to, but can't. Gotta take care of the farm."_

_"The Air Force now has majors playing farmers?"_

_"Told you I made full bird last year. You senile now? Anyhow, I'm retired now, taking care of the family farm."_

_John remembered the promotion but not the retirement. So it probably happened in the last year, or the talkative Mitchell purposefully left that part out during their last conversation. "Family, huh? You keeping them safe?"_

_"Actually, that's something I need your help with. Think you maybe want to come work on a farm?"_

_"Me? On a farm?" John hoped he didn't sound as incredulous as he felt. Taking care of the horses at the family stable was probably the closest thing farming-adjacent he'd done._

_"We had a farm hand until he decided to go find his family back in Texas, if they're still alive. It's only my mom and me now and we can definitely use some help."_

_"Me, on a farm." Somehow John felt the need to reiterate._

_"We have fresh produce," a beat, Mitchell paused before continuing as if to ponder what would be tempting enough, "And I have all the ammo that you'll ever need."_

_Another laugh belled out at the supposed lure. "Rodriguez was the crazy gun guy, not me."_

_"Just come to Auburn. It's you that I trust, not Rodriguez." When there was no reply from John for a long moment, Mitchell added, "I know about Las Vegas - what happened with the Wraith."_

_"What?" It came out in unexpected anguish. Maybe John had lied to himself about the pain it dragged up regarding the Air Force. How Mitchell was involved and a thousand more questions rushed through his head. He wanted answers._

_"I'll tell you everything. Come down here, Sheppard." Mitchell was pleading._

_"Fine. I'll take whatever I can bring with me and be there in a few days."_

_"Medical supplies, food, then fuel. In that order."_

_John couldn't help but snort, "Yes, major. See you in a few days."_

_Then he hung up._

. . . . . .

It was a close call. But they don't think it's anything to worry about.

Cameron cares for his mother. Even when he comes home to a mildly scared but otherwise unharmed Wendy, his brows keep furrowed without easing up for hours. Even when Wendy assures her son that the thin red line on her forearm is simply a scratch from the wooden door, she cannot erase his worry. It's something John can relate.

It's not something John spends much time to contemplate. Times like this though he can't help but think about his late father. They might fight like they'd want to kill each other, John never once doubts his love for his father. If he were alive, he would fuss over him like Cameron does his mother.

However thoughts like these make him feel guilty. Wendy is his responsibility when Cameron's out. A scratch on her is a scratch too many.

John feels he's failed his friend.

Wait... That's not right. John feels he's failed his family.

In this fading world, under the odd circumstances, the Mitchells somehow has in ways adopted John into the family. Strange as it may be, Wendy and Cameron open up their home and welcome him in, providing not just a place for him to stay but also offering the much needed human interaction he hasn't known he craves.

This particular revelation only makes the failure to protect feels that much worse.

Cameron seems to feel differently though. He's grateful for John's quick reaction. The only thing to do is to swallow down the guilt and accept Cameron's gratitude. The man's already feeling sorry for not being around to protect his own mother, there's certainly no need to add John's harsh self-judging to the fold.

It takes about a week for Cameron to lessen his worries, then another for things to return to more or less normal. John keeps his Glock in his shoulder holster except when inside the house and Cameron starts wearing his thigh holster for the 9mm again. Wendy fights but fails to leave the house without either one of them. It is almost as normal as it can get.

Another week, all efforts turn out to be pointless.

It's early morning and Wendy digs out the flour John's bought from the observatory to make pancakes. If not for the honey, it'll be rather plain but they're enjoying anyway. A drop of red landing on Wendy's plate has both men frozen. Then another drop lands.

"I thought the headache was because I couldn't sleep well." Wendy's voice is trembling despite her efforts to project calm. Glancing over at the digital clock on the microwave, she turns to Cameron, "You need to drive me to the county hospital. We may have only five to six hours."

Wendy pulls her hand to herself when Cameron reaches over, but she's not fast enough. Looking into her eyes with determination with a firm squeeze of his hand, he slowly responds, "No, you're staying home."

Giving him a nod when Cameron briefly turns his gaze upon John, they have a quiet understanding. If Wendy is indeed infected, they're going handle it by themselves. Hospital staffs are impersonal and the nearest staffed hospital is quite far away. Whatever time left is better spent staying home together rather than speeding on the road.

Four hours, just to be on the safe side. Cameron sits with Wendy on the couch, going through the family albums which for the Mitchells that's a lot of photos. Laughters mix with unshed tears. Bleeding nose turns into vigorous coughing and then shuddering with cold sweats. A glass of milk laced with crushed Ambien CR awaits.

John takes that time to dig six feet into the ground next to the flowerbed, behind the barn where Wendy indulges her love of gardening. Why anybody who lives on a farm has gardening for hobby is beyond him.

The ground floor is empty except for Cameron on the couch, elbows on knees and face in palms, when John comes back in. There's a vial and a syringe on the side table next to Cameron. Without bothering to check the vial, he believes it to be morphine because that's what he would've chosen. Sensing his presence, Cameron rises unsteadily from sitting, briefly looks at John with a pained look before turning away to stare at the vial and syringe.

Placing a hand on Cameron's shoulder trying to be reassuring, John steps close. "You've done the best you can, Cameron." Words have never been John's strength and no words is going to be good enough. "I'll be here."

Before Cameron can let out a sigh, John slides an arm around his neck from behind to keep him in a choke hold. Seconds pass with Cameron trying to counter the sudden turn of event but failing, John lowers his unconscious body to the couch. Never has John entertain the idea of using his special forces training on his friend, and it isn't a good feeling.

A snapped neck works faster than morphine overdose, and potentially less painful when done right. There are but a few minutes before Cameron regains consciousness, John needs to move fast now that a choice is made. He can probably have all things attended to. Distance away is the best he can offer Cameron from this clusterfuck. At least he hopes he can.

Later Cameron can hate John all he wants, but in John's opinion nobody should ever need to euthanize their own parent.

. . . . . .

_Auburn was a small town, population wise. Even before the plague there was just above a thousand people living there. Now, John speculated there wouldn't even be a hundred. The town would make a good hideout._

_There was hardly any cloud in the sky the day John drove past the battered town sign, and he wondered if he didn't get skin cancer in Las Vegas he might here. Grateful that the GPS satellites were still working, he made the turn towards his destination without issues. Mitchell might be good at flying fighter jets, he still was lousy giving directions. No wonder fighter jocks always got lost on the ground._

_The sight of Mitchell with a cane at the door was a surprise. Not so much for the cane since sustaining injuries while serving wasn't at all a novice idea. What surprised John was how little Mitchell seemed to have aged. Counting the times they've met after Flight School wouldn't need all the fingers on one hand, so it was almost like they'd only last seen each other days before._

_Mitchell was always a friendly person but apparently he was secretly a hugger too - possibly something buried underneath the rules of wearing the uniform. Feeling like a fish out of water, gingerly John patted his back as if to return the hug. If Mitchell noticed John's discomfort, he didn't say anything. Instead he led the way to the kitchen and waved at the table for John to sit down. Much to John's delighted surprise, Mitchell pulled out two beers from the fridge and offered him one._

_"It's gonna be a long conversation. Think you might need that," explained Mitchell. "Go easy, we don't have much left."_

_The beer was cold and something John had missed. Though after swallowing down the first mouth, he wondered why. It might not had been by choice, he did stay sober for months. Maybe alcohol was another thing he could live without and not miss at all, like cigarette, or sex._

_The two men sat in silence for a few moments simply sipping their beer before Mitchell began. John had a little trouble believing McKay's tale back in Vegas. What Mitchell was telling him was like a continuation of that but wilder than his imagination could ever dream up - recruited to fly space-capable fighter jet; participated in dogfight with alien invaders over Antarctica; shot down, injured and recovered; joined SGC to travel through artificial wormholes; infected with the Prior Plague and miraculously cured; met, fought and overcame intergalactic cult; flew to another galaxy and fought a man controlled by evil miniature robots. It was stuff made for movies or television shows._

_"Final straw was the battle with the Wraith hive ship," Mitchell sighed finishing the last of his beer. "The two people who can use the Goa'uld healing device were lost in the battle." The slight pause and minute trembling of Mitchell's lips said volume how much the lost two meant, "So they have no way to heal my injuries except for replacing my left hip and amputate my right leg above the knee. At least the prosthetics they got me are state-of-the-art."_

_There was regret in the way Mitchell shrugged. John found it hard to gauge it was for the loss of comrades or limb. It was perfectly clear that whatever he was hearing, it was highly classified beyond the meager NDAs he had signed. "So you retired after that? It isn't like you at all, Mitchell." He knew there was more to the story and he was confident that Mitchell wanted him to know. What would be the point of dragging him to Kansas if not to tell the whole story?_

_"With all the classified information I'm telling you, you should at least call me Cameron." The smile was easy and heartfelt, even if it didn't quite have the strength comparing to those in John's memories. "Or better yet, Cam."_

_Calling him 'Mitchell' was a leftover habit from John's Air Force days. There was a shift in their old-military-buddy type of friendship into something different - some special survivor bond. It was only right to accept the change. "So, Cameron, what's the real reason you want me here?" Best strategy was always to hit it head-on, at least it was in John's operating manual._

_Cameron might have expected that precise question because he didn't miss a beat in his tell-all explanations._

_It was a desk Cameron flew after his surgeries and recovery but soon the plague started and he chose to come back to take care of his mother instead. However it wasn't before SGC found out about the new plague. The Prior Plague, which was known to rest of the world as a deadly strain of influenza, was bioengineered to combine with rabies into a new virus by a group of nature-terrorists to_ cleanse _the Earth of human. They had found records of their studies in their laboratory together with their plan of how to spread it. And apparently they succeeded because it was so-far impossible to detect, easier to spread and faster to kill._

_A decision was made by the government, with suggestions from SGC, selected personnels would evacuate Earth once a proven detection method was found. The remaining uninfected population would be moved to the state of Hawaii due to its isolated location and comparative low current population making it suitable for rebuild from the ground up. Cameron, with his records of saving Earth several times over, and his dependents had been included for the evacuation. Unless they chose to relocate to Hawaii._

_"You and your mom, huh?" John mused, "So, you want me to keep tending to the farm afterwards?"_

_The look he got from Cameron was one he disliked ever since they first met - one that said John was too dumb to be allowed to fly. "If you work on the farm, then you're_ a dependent _. It's the Air Force's definition."_

_"Why?" was all John could ask._

_All ease and casualness vaporized from Cameron's face with his sigh. "You saved Earth in Vegas, you deserved a place on_ The Hammond _. Besides, you're the only friend I have left." The smile that followed was entirely absolutely mirthless. "Yeah, you heard right. Everybody else died on me."_

_John was sure it wasn't pity he felt. It wasn't sympathy neither. It was understanding. The loneliness he refused to feel in a world slowly blinking out of existence. The plague might be deadly, it was kind to kill quickly. Loneliness tortured. Cameron was at a better place because of Wendy._

_John made a decision then - a promise that he didn't say out loud. He would do everything in his power to make sure Cameron wouldn't be left alone._

. . . . . .

Cameron has been quiet for days after Wendy's death. John knows he was mourning but a quiet Cameron is unsettling no matter the cause. Truth is he has come to miss the irritatingly energetic side of Cameron.

When he starts to talk again after spending days in silence, he always sounds like the wind's been knocked out of him. And he begins to cling to John. At least not physically.

Cameron now has the need to know where John is every waking moment. He tries to do it subtly but always get caught. He would open the door to check that John's working in the field before closing it again. He would find some redundant questions to ask John in his bedroom, before turning in for the night.

Cameron is trying make sure John doesn't go disappearing on him and John understand that all too well.

John did the same to his brother when his own mother passed away.

. . . . . .

_The contradicting feelings of John's were confusing. Working on a farm was nothing like he'd ever done and he was having a hard time adjusting. And yet it felt like the most natural thing for him to be doing other than flying._

_Other than that, he was settling in fine. The mattress he brought from the observatory played a major part in helping._

_Little by little, Cameron told how his lost his team - Colonel Carter and Teal'c sacrificed while commanding_ Odyssey _during the battle with the Wraith hive ship; Vala got swarmed by Wraith soldiers and possibly taken to the queen for questioning; Dr. Jackson contracted the plague after repeated exposure even though he was believed to be immune; General O'Neill got infected and suffered a whole week from first symptom to last before accepting his morphine overdose, in hopes that the scientists could get more data finding a cure._

_While John believed talking about tragic events might help getting over mourning, he didn't really practice such belief. It was worse seeing Cameron recount the fall of his friends though. It was almost self-torture. But he kept going, like life depended on it that John knew what went on in his wormhole-traveling years._

_John did learn a few more things that might be useful in the long run._

_One of them being some of the SGC staffs, who were infected with the Prior Plague and were cured directly by a Prior, seemed to have a level of immunity over the engineered virus. Some could still get infected upon extended exposure, like Dr. Jackson. Others, like Cameron, appeared to remain immune._

_Also, the Air Force gave Cameron an encrypted communication device, for uses like request extra ammunitions, food and medicine supply or immediate evacuation. No wonder the hallway closet was stocked full of firearms instead of cleaning supplies. The Mitchells appeared to want to make it on their own instead of relying on the military though. It was something John couldn't agree more._

_And another was that ATA gene carriers, like General O'Neill, had a stronger resistance to the virus. But it also raised the pain level and stretched out the suffering._

_John couldn't help but wonder if his ATA gene, as McKay seemed to think of as a blessing, would actually mean an extremely slow and painful death for him._

. . . . . .

John hasn't cared enough to feel hate in a long time. But right now, he hates himself.

The headache is easy to keep at bay, with the large about of different painkillers he's found in the observatory. As it turns out the nose bleeds happen mostly in the morning and easily hidden. But after about twelve days when the coughing starts and he finds out bleeding gum is an added symptom before the shaking sets in, he wonders if Cameron has noticed his symptoms.

John has failed people. The list of names keeps growing, slowly but surely. Though this one will be his last but it also is the worst. To see it coming a mile away but unable to anything to stop it from happening shows him the true meaning of feeling hopeless. It's a simple unspoken promise to the person that matters and he's unable to keep it.

Cameron needs a something, a person, to tether himself to the world. John wants to be that something but cannot.

Next to the flowerbed, John's keeping Wendy's small garden of flowers alive and blooming. The day's weather is mild and pleasant, unlike the scalding heat the day before. But he can't enjoy it like he should.

The sunshine and blue skies make it seem worse, somehow.

John knows, he probably has a week left but he needs to act in case plan A doesn't work out. Not that he has a plan B but it's what the extra time is for. To make other plans.

He wonders whether they'll bury or cremate him. Or maybe his body will stay lying around since nobody will be around to find it. It doesn't matter though. As long as the Lt. Colonel sends people to escort Cameron to safety as discussed with John, be it on board the evacuation ship or in some high security bunker, he'll be fine with his own fate. He may not be able to be there for Cameron, the least he can do is to make sure Cameron's in capable hands.

In the distance, John hears the familiar sound of rotary engine. Minutes pass and the helicopter eventually lands in the cleared field. Several people hop off heading towards him led by a man with silver oak leaf on his uniform, who introduces himself as Davis. With a nod from him, the other men go off to the house for Cameron and some of his packed belongings.

The extraction is quick and precise. Minutes later, it's only John is left by the field and the helicopter up in the air with Cameron safely asleep in it.

Cameron will probably hate him, but he'll be safe and no longer on his own. Physically, that is.

With another look at the cloudless sky and the fading helicopter, John unholsters his gun.


End file.
